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Goethe on the Theater

PUBLICATIONS

of the

Dramatic Museum

OF Columbia University

IN THE CITY OF NEW YORK

Fourth Series

Discussions of the Drama :

I 'Goethe on the Theater,' selections from
the conversations with Eckermann ; trans-
lated by John Oxenford. With an in-
troduction by William Witherle Lawrence.

11 'GoLDONi ON Playv\tiiting' ; translated and
compiled by F. C. L. Van Steenderen.
With an introduction by H. C. Chatfield-
Taylor.

III Trospero's Island,' by Edward Everett
Hale. With an introduction by Henry
Cabot Lodge.

IV 'Letters of an Old Playgoer' by Matthew
Arnold. With an introduction by Brander
Matthews.

DISCUSSIONS OF THE DRAMA

I

Goethe on the Theater

Selections from the Conversations with Eckermann

TRANSLATED BY

John Oxenford

with an introduction by
William Witherle Lawrence

Printed for the

Dramatic Museum of Columbia University

in the City of New Tork
MCMXIX

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1^

C O N r E N T S

Introduction by William Withcrlc Lawrence.... I

Goethe on the Theater 19

INTRODUCTION

In 1823, nine years before Goethe's death,
Johann Peter Eckermann, a young man in his
early thirties, journeyed on foot from Han-
over to Weimar in order to meet face to
face the poet and dramatist, whose works he
had deeply admired. He was cordially re-
ceived, and soon became an almost daily visi-
tor at Goethe's house. His modest and gen-
tle disposition, and his genuine enthusiasm
for literature and art, and particularly for
the drama, seem to have endeared him to the
aging poet, who admitted him to an intimacy
denied to far abler men. Eckermann's some-
what passive nature was no doubt more
agreeable than a more assertive character
would have been. Despite his mental vigor,
Goethe was in his last years frequently un-
well, and there are occasional hints in the
'Conversations' of the ruses which he
adopted to avoid wearying himself with un-
congenial visitors. Probably, too, he had a
shrewd idea that this sensitive adorer might

I

transmit to posterity a portrait worth the
having, and more flattering than one from
the hand of a more vigorous artist. Many
years before, Goethe had met Madame de
Stael, who made no secret of the fact that
she intended to immortalize their conversa-
tion in print. But Goethe was repelled
rather than stimulated by the brilliant
Frenchwoman, and he might well have
feared that the outlines of a likeness of him-
self etched by her hand would be unduly
sharpened. Certainly he had nothing of the
sort to fear from Eckermann. He knew
quite well what his disciple was doing; the
writing and publication of the 'Conversa-
tions' was agreed upon by the two men some
years before Goethe's death. It was a happy
inspiration; few books throw more light upon
the convictions of Goethe's maturity, or give
a more vivid impression of his personality.
The literary reputation of Eckermann him-
self rests solely upon this work. He had, at
various times in his life, grandiose plans for
literary achievement, but such other material
as he actually produced is of no consequence.
He is interesting solely as the interpreter of
Goethe. Altho he was well fitted by tern-

perament for this task, he was indifferently
educated. Born of peasant parents, he had,
by virtue of his quickness as a child, received
schooling superior to his station, but the
necessity of earning his own living prevented
him from following his scholarly inclinations.
After some experience in the army, and in a
subordinate governmental post, he finally en-
rolled at Gottingen as a student of law. But,
as he says in the little account of his early
life which he has left us, he was like a maiden,
who finds good reason to object to a pro-
posed marriage because she cherishes another
in her heart. Eckermann's real love was not
law, but poetry and the drama. He had also
bestowed his affections upon a girl, Johanna
Bertram, whom Goethe does not seem to
have encouraged him to marry. Even when
he did marry her, in 1831, after many years
of waiting, his devotion to Goethe and his
frequent visits at the poet's house seem
hardly to have been interrupted. During all
these years, his means of making a living
were somewhat precarious. Altho he assert-
ed with vigor that he was not Goethe's secre-
tary, but his pupil and co-worker, his serv-
ices seem to have been in part those of liter-

ary assistant, with the customary remunera-
tion. He also gave lessons to English
visitors and residents in Weimar, which
helped him to gain a knowledge of English
and an ability to read the English classics—
a valuable addition to his incomplete educa-
tion. Six years after Goethe's death he was
made Librarian to the Grand-Duchess in
Weimar, with the title of Court Councillor;
and in this pleasant sinecure lived out the re-
maining years of his life until his death in
1854, a gentle, conceited, unimportant man,
to whom the reflected glory of a great per-
sonality has lent a kind of immortality.

Eckermann was not a Boswell; the 'Con-
versations' have not the vigor and piquancy
of the immortal biography of Johnson. Nor
does Goethe appear before us with the direct-
ness and sincerity of the great lexicographer.
Despite many charming glimpses of the
poet's home life in Weimar, of his kindness
of heart and simplicity of taste, there are
constant suggestions that he is posing for his
admirer and for posterity. One must take
Eckermann's record of their intimacy, too,
with a grain of salt. The entries in Goethe's
-^wn diary are singularly laconic when com-

pared with the enthusiastic expressions in
Eckermann's pages. Goethe had been too
long in the public eye to reveal himself with-
out reserve. But this very element of cal-
culation gives to his views an authority and
finality which less considered utterances
might have lackt. It is here, indeed, that
the greatest value of the 'Conversations' lies.
They are chiefly important as a record of
Goethe's convictions on a wide variety of
subjects. In recording these utterances, in
reproducing dialog, Eckermann was singu-
larly happy. Goethe's personality stands
forth with wonderful vividness, and his
words, even when oracular, seem easy and
unconstrained. We can forgive the occa-
sional self-satisfaction with which the biog-
rapher sets down his own views beside those
of his master, in view of the greater natural-
ness which they lend to the dialog. And if
Eckermann has not the alluringly inquisitive
toadiness of a Boswell, he is not too colorless
a character to engage the sympathy and in-
terest of the reader on his own account. But
there are no other full-length portraits, not
even of Goethe's family. An occasional visi-
tor passes before our eyes, but he is only

sketched in. Eckermann saw only his idol;
he was not the man to portray a variety of
personalities. It is only fair to add that
neither the visitors to Weimar nor the dwell-
ers in the little grand-ducal capital were at
all comparable to the brilliant circle which
gathered about Johnson and is immortalized
in the pages of Boswell.

The biographer's chief passion was for the
theater — a passion so intense that Goethe
has many a sly hit at his friend's ardor. The
Weimar theater in the decade before Goethe's
death, while far from having the renown
which the activity of Goethe and Schiller had
earlier lent to it, was a good one as the times
went, and it was supported with considerable
enthusiasm. One of the most interesting pas-
sages in the 'Conversations' describes the fire
which destroyed the building in 1825, and
there are further accounts of the new struc-
ture immediately planned and erected to take
its place. The Weimar theater had once be-
fore, like the phoenix, arisen from its ashes.
A fire in 1774 had consumed it; and the new
playhouse, the so-called 'Altes Theater,'
shown in the old prints as a long barrack-
like building of two stories, with a small

6

portico in front, was the scene of most of
Goethe's practical experience with the drama.
A consideration of his connection with the
stage, then, must deal chiefly with his career
as director of this theater.

When Goethe came to Weimar in 1775,
at the invitation of Duke Karl August, he
found a pleasure-loving court devoted to
stage-plays, but possessing no regular thea-
ter. Private dramatic entertainments were
a favorite form of amusement, and much
care was lavisht upon elaborate pieces in
w^hich the court circle took part. In these
amateur theatricals Goethe naturally became
prominent. He had shown himself to be a
writer of distinction, and he was manifesting
much executive ability in the affairs of the
duchy. So when the theater was finally built
and opened for dramatic performances,
Goethe was made director. The expenses of
its maintenance were chiefly borne by the
Duke; while the public was provided for, it
was essentially a house for the court and the
intellectuals. Actors of ability were engaged,
and great care was taken with the produc-
tion of ambitious works. Over all these per-
formances Goethe ruled with a rod of iron.

From 1800 on, the genius of Schiller co-
operated with that of Goethe in making the
Weimar theater memorable. The untimely
death of his brother-poet was a great blow
to Goethe's interest in the active stage, but
he continued as director, though not in full
activity, until 18 17, when an unlucky quarrel
with the Duke caused his retirement, to-
gether with that of his son August, who had
recently become associated with him in the
direction of the theater. The rawness of the
breach with Karl August was soon salved
over, but it was an unfortunate end to
Goethe's distinguisht career as a theatrical
manager, and a melancholy break in a long
and intimate friendship. Karl August,
though ruling over a duchy small in territory,
had made it notable through his own ability
and the talents of the men whom he had
gathered about him.

The theater under Goethe's direction was,
however, by no means wholly successful.
The trouble seems to have been that he was
primarily a poet rather than a playwright,
and that as a director he often sacrificed the-
atrical effectiveness to other considerations.

8

Like Byron, whom he greatly admired, and
like Tennyson and Browning, Goethe wrote
much which was unsuited for production on
the stage, tho cast in dramatic form. With
all his greatness, he belongs in a different
category from Shakspere or Moliere, or
even from Holberg or Goldoni, in that his
plays are often not essentially dramatic. He
was much occupied with moral issues, with
setting forth an Ideal; and he was much con-
cerned In reviving masterpieces of the past,
and In Imitating the technic of great drama-
tists of other countries and other ages. He
apparently allowed himself to forget that
drama lives because it tells a story effectively,
In a manner suited to the audience, and to
the playhouse In which It Is acted. His
'Iphlgenia,' modeled upon Greek tragedy, Is
a noble work, despite Its long speeches and
lack of action; but it suffers in the modern
theater because the audience lacks that in-
timate acquaintance with the story which en-
abled the Greeks to concentrate their atten-
tion upon motivation and upon analysis of
character. His 'Gotz von Berlichingen,' one
of his best plays, obviously influenced by the

chronicle-histories of Shakspere, cuts the ac-
tion up into many scenes, an arrangement
easy enough upon the bare stage of the Eliza-
bethans, but unsuited to the more elaborate
scenery of modern days, which must be shift-
ed for each change of locality. Goethe
dreamed of founding a German drama, as he
tells Eckermann, and to that end wrote
'Iphigenia' and 'Tasso,' but was disheartened
at the lack of enthusiasm in his audience.
He criticised Lessing for choosing the quar-
rels of Saxony and Prussia as a background
for 'Minna von Barnhelm,' but it was a
wiser choice for an audience of German peo-
ple than episodes of classical tragedy or
Renascence idealism. Goethe's greatest
work, 'Faust,' is a perfect illustration of
great drama which is unsuited to the the-
ater. The Second Part, though often given
in Germany, needs only to be seen on the
stage to be adjudged a piece to be read; and
the First Part, with all its glorious poetry,
and with all the effectiveness of single scenes,
is really a succession of episodes rather
than a connected drama. It lacks the cohe-
sion which binds together even the loosest

ID

of Shakspere's dramatic romances, like the
'Winter's Tale' or 'Cymbeline.' The plays
of Schiller are far superior to those of
Goethe in dramatic effectiveness, but even
Schiller was not wholly free from the fault
which has just been noted. Goethe himself
speaks in the 'Conversations' of the diffi-
culty which Schiller experienced in subduing
his material to dramatic form. The soaring
imagination of each great poet was hardly
to be confined within the somewhat arbitrary
limits of dramatic technic. It may be ques-
tioned whether some of Goethe's plays which
are given in Germany at the present day
would not have lost their place in the play-
house long since, were it not for the great-
ness of Goethe as a master of literature, and
the piety with which the Germans regard
even the minor works of a genius. Probably
few Germans would agree with Scherer's
conclusion that Goethe lackt the fiber of a
dramatist.

It is interesting to observe that if Goethe
was not always successful in practice, he was
generally correct in precept. He recognized
very clearly the difficulty of composition for

II

the stage. Upon this point he exprest him-
self In no uncertain terms to Eckermann.
"Writing for the stage," he said, "is an art
by itself, and he who does not understand it
thoroly had better leave it alone. Every-
one thinks that an Interesting fact will ap-
pear Interesting In the theater — nothing of
the kind ! Things may be very pretty to
read, and very pretty to think about; but as
soon as they are put upon the stage the effect
is quite different, and what has charmed us
In the closet will probably fall flat on the
boards. When one reads my 'Hermann and
Dorothea,' he thinks it might be brought out
at the theater. Topfer has been inveigled
into the experiment, but what is it, what ef-
fect does it produce, especially If It is not
played In a first-rate manner? And who can
say that it Is in every respect a good piece?
Writing for the stage is a trade that one
must understand, and requires a talent that
one must possess. Both are uncommon, and
where they are not combined, we shall scarce-
ly have any good result." Such suggestive
observations as these on the business of play-
making and play-producing are scattered

12

thru the 'Conversations.' Goethe loved to
crystallize his knowledge into pungent
phrases, but he perceived clearly the futility
of attempting to reduce theatrical manage-
ment to a series of aphorisms. "The the-
ater," he says in a short paper on the Wei-
mar stage, "is one of those affairs which can
least of all be managed according to rules;
one is entirely dependent upon the times in
which he lives and upon his contemporaries.
What the author chooses to write, the ac-
tors to perform, and the public to hear —
these are the things that tyrannize over the
directors of theaters, and in the face of which
they can preserve hardly any will of their
own." The history of the Weimar theater
scarcely bears this out. Goethe was, it ap-
pears, rather a tyrannical director himself;
his imperious will often aroused opposition.
Possibly the very force of the circumstances
of which he speaks — the demands made by
author, actors, and public — roused his nat-
urally vigorous temperament to a more in-
tense activity.

To select for reprinting passages which
deal with only one subject does an injustice

13

to the 'Conversations' as a whole. Perhaps
the most remarkable thing about Goethe was
the variety of his interests and the diversity
of the pursuits in which he attained distinc-
tion. Of this versatility and virtuosity the
'Conversations' give a very striking illustra-
tion. The keenest interest in art, letters, sci-
ence, politics, and philosophy is there re-
vealed. It is the record of a mind of the
widest sympathy with many different forms
of human endeavor. The picture is no doubt
too much idealized; we know well enough
that Goethe was neither a saint nor a demi-
god, but a man with many human weaknesses.
But we can forgive some suppression of his
defects in the general truth of the portrait
drawn by Eckermann, The 'Conversations'
indeed confirm Napoleon's terse character-
ization of Goethe — an unconscious echo of
Antony's words over the dead Brutus, and
doubly significant because of Napoleon's own
intellectual eminence — "Voila un homme!"

John Oxenford's translation of the 'Con-
versations,' completed midway in the nine-
teenth century, while not without faults, is

14

fairly adequate.* The original German,
which would sometimes be clumsy if rendered
literally into English, is often paraphrased,
with a slight Havor of mid-Victorian elegance
quite in keeping with Eckermann's rather
conscious style. The present editor has
taken the liberty of making a few alterations,
in order to secure greater accuracy, clearness,
or smoothness.

It seems incomparably the better plan to
arrange the 'Conversations' in the order In
which they are reported as having taken
place, irrespective of the date of their appear-
ance in print. To indicate the arrangement
in the original editions serves only the pur-
pose of the special student of Goethe-bibliog-

* 'Conversations of Goethe with Eckerraann and Soret,
translated from the German by John Oxenford.' Revised
edition, Bell and Sons, London, 1913. The original edition
of Oxenford's work appeared in 1850. A uselul critical
edition of the original is that by Dr. H. H. Houben:
'Gesprache mit Goethe in den letzten Jahren seines Lebens,
von Johann Peter Eckermann.' Brockhaus, Leipzig, 1909.
The first German edition of the 'Conversations' was pub-
lished in two volumes in 1836. In 1848 Eckermann added
a third volume containing additional material, some of it
fumisht by a Swiss gentleman named Soret, who had
been a frequent visitor at Goethe's house. A translation
of some portions of the 'Conversations,' by Margaret
Fuller, was published in 1839.

15

raphy. In general, only those passages
which have a direct bearing on the drama are
here reprinted, altho no attempt has been
made to include them all. Enough of the
narrative of life in Weimar has been given
to make the discussions of the theater and its
people more vivid and comprehensible.

The purpose of the present selections is
not to offer a commentary on Goethe, or on
the theatrical conditions of his day; its aim
is rather to bring together in convenient form
the dramatic convictions of a great poetic
genius, who was both a prolific writer for the
theater and a dramatic director of long and
varied experience. This volume was project-
ed, the selections made and revised, and the
introduction written before the war. Very
few alterations, none of any consequence,
have since been made. It is worth remem-
bering that Goethe's attitude towards ques-
tions of political morality in no wise agrees
with that of his countrymen in the present
generation.

William Witherle Lawrence.

i6

GOETHE ON THE THEATER

GOETHE ON THE THEATER

1823

Tuesday, October 14th. This evening, I
went for the first time to a large tea-party
at Goethe's. I arrived first, and enjoyed
the view of the brilliantly lighted apartments,
which, thru open doors, led one into another.
In one of the furthest, I found Goethe, who
came to meet me with a cheerful air. He
was drest in black, and wore his star, which
became him so well. We were for a while
alone, and went into the so-called "ceiling
room" (Deckenzimmer) , where the picture
of the Aldobrandine Marriage, which was
hung above a red couch, especially attracted
my attention. On the curtains being drawn
aside, the picture was before my eyes in a
strong light, and I was delighted to con-
template it quietly. . . .

Goethe himself appeared very amiable in
society. He went about from one to another,

19

and always seemed to prefer listening and
hearing his guests talk, to talking much him-
self. . . .

He came to me with Frau von Goethe.
"This is my daughter-in-law," said he; "do
you know each other?"

We told him that we had just become ac-
quainted.

"He is as much a child about a theater as
you, Ottilie!" said he; and we exchanged
congratulations upon this taste which we had
in common. "My daughter," continued he,
"never misses an evening."

"That is all very well," said I, "as long as
they give good lively pieces; but when the
pieces are bad, they try the patience."

"But," said Goethe, "it is a good thing that
you cannot leave, but are forced to hear and
see even what is bad. By this means, you
are penetrated with the hatred for the bad,
and come to a clearer insight into the good.
In reading, it is not so — you throw aside the
book, if it displeases you; but at the theater
\ you must endure."

Saturday, October 25th. We talkt of
the theater, which was one of the topics
which chiefly interested me this winter. The

20

'Erdennacht' of Raupach was the last piece
I had seen. I gave it as my opinion that the
piece was not brought before us as it existed
in the mind of the poet; that the Idea was
more predominant than Life; that it was
rather lyric than dramatic; and that what
was spun out through five acts would have
been far better in two or three. Goethe add-
ed that the idea of the whole turned upon
aristocracy and democracy, and that this was
by no means of universal interest to hu-
manity.

I then praised those pieces of Kotzebue's
which I had seen — namely, his "Verwand-
schaften,' and his 'Versohnung.' I praised
in them the quick eye for real life, the dex-
terity at seizing its interesting sides, and the
occasionally genuine and forcible representa-
tion of it. Goethe agreed with me. "What
has kept its place for twenty years, and en-
joys the favor of the people," said he, "must
have something in it. When Kotzebue con-
tented himself with his own sphere, and did
not go beyond his powers, he usually did well.
It «vas the same with him as with Chodo-
wiecky, who always succeeded perfectly with
the scenes of common citizens' life, while if

21

he attempted to paint Greek or Roman
heroes, he failed."

Goethe named several other good pieces
of Kotzebue's, especially 'Die beiden Klings-
berge.' "No one can deny," said he, "that
Kotzebue has lookt about a great deal in
life, and kept his eyes open.

"Intellect, and some poetry," continued
Goethe, "cannot be denied to our modern
tragic poets, but most of them are incapa-
ble of an easy, living representation; they
strive after something beyond their powers;
and for that reason I might call them forced
talents."

"I doubt," said I, "whether such poets
could write a piece in prose, and am of the
opinion that this would be the true touch-
stone of their talent." Goethe agreed with
me, adding that versification enhanced, and
even called forth, poetic feeling.

22

i824

Friday, January 2nd. We talkt of Eng-
lish literature, the greatness of Shakspere,
and the unfavorable position held by all Eng-
lish dramatic authors who had appeared af-
ter that poetical giant.

"A dramatic talent of any importance,"
said Goethe, "could not forbear to notice
Shakspere's works, nay, could not forbear to
study them. Having studied them, he must
be aware that Shakspere has already ex-'*
hausted the whole of human nature in all its
tendencies, in all its heights and depths, and
that, in fact, there remains for him, the after-
comer, nothing more to do. And how coum
one get courage to put pen to paper, if one
were conscious, even in a spirit of earnestness
and appreciation, that such unfathomable
and unattainable excellences were already in
existence !

"It fared better with me fifty years ago in
my own dear Germany. I could soon come

23

to an end with all that then existed; it could
not long awe me, or occupy my attention. I
soon left behind me German literature, and
the study of it, and turned my thoughts to
life and to production. So gradually ad-
vancing I proceeded in my natural develop-
ment, and formed myself for the work which
from one time to another I was able to pro-
duce. And at every step of life and devel-
opment my standard of excellence was not
much higher than what at such step I was
able to attain. But had I been born an Eng-
lishman, and had all those diverse master-
pieces been brought before me in all their
power at my first dawn of youthful con-
sciousness, they would have overpowered me,
and I should not have known what to do. I
could not have gone on with such fresh light-
heartedness, but should have had to bethink
myself, and look about for a long time, to
find some new outlet."

I turned the conversation back to Shak-
spere. "When one, to some degree, disen-
gages him from English literature," said I,
"and considers him transformed into a Ger-
man, one cannot fail to look upon his gigan-
tic greatness as a miracle. But if one seeks

24

him in his home, transplants oneself to the
soil of his country, and to the atmosphere of
the century in which he lived; further, if one
studies his contemporaries, and his immedi-
ate successors, and inhales the force wafted
to us from Ben Jonson, Masslnger, Mar-
lowe, and Beaumont and Fletcher, Shakspere
still, indeed, appears a being of the most ex-
alted magnitude; but one arrives at the con-
viction that many of the wonders of his
genius are, in some measure, accessible, and
that much in his work is due to the powerful
and productive atmosphere of his age and

time."

"You are perfectly right," returned
Goethe. "It is with Shakspere as with the
mountains of Switzerland. Transplant Mont
Blanc at once into the large plain of Liine-
burg Heath, and you would find no words to
express your wonder at its magnitude. Visit
it, however, in its gigantic home, go to it
over its immense neighbors, the Jungfrau,
the Finsteraarhorn, the Eiger, the Wetter-
horn, St. Gothard, and Monte Rosa; Mont
Blanc will, indeed, still remain a giant, but
it will no longer produce in us such amaze-
ment.

25

"Besides, let him who will not believe,"
continued Goethe, "that much of Shakspere's
greatness belongs to his great vigorous time
only ask himself the question, whether he
thinks so astounding a phenomenon would
be possible in the present England of 1824,
in these evil days of journals that criticise
and destroy?"

Tuesday, March 30th. This evening I
was with Goethe. I was alone with him ; we
talked on various subjects, and drank a bottle
of wine. We spoke of the French drama, as
contrasted with the German.

"It will be very difficult," said Goethe,
."for the German public to come to a kind of
right judgment, as they do in Italy and
France. We have a special obstacle in the
circumstance that on our stage a medley of
all sorts of things is represented. On the
same boards where we saw Hamlet yester-
day, we see Staberle to-day; and if to-mor-
row we are delighted with 'The Magic
Flute,' the day after we shall be charmed with
the oddities of the favorite of the moment.
Hence the public becomes confused In Its
judgment, mingling together various species,
which It never learns rightly to appreciate

26

and to understand. Fnirthermore, every one
has his own Individual demands and personal
wishes, and returns to the spot where he finds
them realized. On the tree where he has
pluckt figs to-day, he would pluck them again
to-morrow, and would make a long face if
sloes had grown in their stead during the
night. But if any one is a friend to sloes, he
turns to the thorns.

"Schiller had the happy thought of build-
ing a house for tragedy alone, and of giving
a piece every week for the male sex exclu-
sively. But this notion presupposed a very
large city, and could not be realized in our
humble circumstances."

We talkt about the plays of Iffland and
Kotzebue, which, in their way, Goethe highly
commended. "From this very fault," said
he, "that people do not perfectly distinguish
between kinds in art, the pieces of these men
are often unjustly censured. We may wait
a long time before a couple of such popular
talents come again."

Sunday, May 2nd. Goethe had sent me
this morning a roll of papers relative to the
theater, among which I had found some de-
tacht remarks, containing the rules and stud-

27

ies which he had carried out with Wolff and
Griiner to qualify them for good actors. I
found these details important and highly in-
structive for young actors, and therefore pro-
posed to put them together, and make from
them a sort of theatrical catechism. Goethe
consented, and we discust the matter fur-
ther. This gave us occasion to speak of
some distinguisht actors who had been
formed in his school; and I took the oppor-
tunity to ask some questions about Frau von
Heigendorf. "I may," said Goethe, "have
influenced her, but, properly speaking, she Is
not my pupil. She was, as it were, born on
the boards, and was as decided, ready, and
adroit in anything as a duck in the water.
She did not need my instruction, but did what
was right instinctively, perhaps without
knowing it."

We then talkt of the many years he had
superintended the theater, and the infinite
time which had thus been lost to llterarv
production. "Yes," said he, "I may have
missed writing many a good thing, but when
I reflect, I am not sorry. I have always re-
garded all I have done solely as symbolical ;
and, In fact, It has been pretty much a mat-

28

ter of indifference to me whether I have
made pots or dishes."

29

i825

Tuesday, January i8th. RIemer spoke of
Schiller's personal appearance. "The build
of his limbs, his gait in the street, all his mo-
tions," said he, "were proud; his eyes only
were soft."

"Yes," said Goethe, "everything else about
him was proud and majestic, only the eyes
were soft. And his talent was like his out-
ward form. He seized boldly on a great
subject, and turned it this way and that, and
lookt at it now on one side, now on another,
and handled it in diverse ways. But he saw
his object, as it were, only on the outside;
a quiet development from within was not
within his province. His talent was desul-
tory. Thus he was never decided — could
never bring things to an end. He often
changed a part just before a rehearsal.

"And, as he went so boldly to work, he
did not take sufficient pains about motives.

30

1 recollect what trouble 1 had with hhn, when
he wanted to make Gessler, in 'Tell,' abrupt-
ly break, an apple from the tree, and have it
shot from the boy's head. This was quite
against my nature, and I urged him to give
at least some motive to this barbarity by
making the boy boast to Gessler of his
father's dexterity, and say that he could shoot
an apple from a tree at a hundred paces.
Schiller, at first, would have nothing of the
sort; but at last he yielded to my arguments
and intentions, and did as I advised him. I,
on the other hand, by too great attention to
motives, kept my pieces from the theater.
My 'Eugenie' is nothing but a chain of mo-
tives, and this cannot succeed on the stage,/

"Schiller's genius was really made for the
theater. With every piece he progrest, and
became more finisht; but, strange to say, a
certain love for the horrible adhered to him
from the time of the 'Robbers,' which never
quite left him even in his prime. I still recol-
lect perfectly well that in the prison scene
in my 'Egmont,' where the sentence is read
to him, Schiller would have made Alva ap-
pear in the background, maskt and muffled in
a cloak, enjoying the effect which the sen-

31

tence would produce on Egmont. Thus Alva
was to show himself Insatiable in revenge and
malice. I, however, protested, and prevent-
ed his appearance. Schiller was a great and
wonderful man.

Thursday, February 24th. "If I were
still superintendent of the theater," said
Goethe this evening, "I would bring out
Byron's 'Doge of Venice.' The piece is in-
deed too long and would require shortening.
Nothing, however, should be cut out, but the
import of each scene should be taken, and ex-
prest more concisely. The piece would
thus be brought closer together, without be-
ing damaged by alterations, and it would
gain a powerful effect, without any essential
loss of beauty."

This opinion of Goethe's gave me a new
view as to how we might proceed on the
stage, in a hundred similar cases. . . .

We talkt more about Lord Byron, and I
mentioned how, in his conversations with
Medwin, he had said there was something
extremely difficult and unthankful in writing
for the theater. "The great point Is," said
Goethe, "for the poet to strike Into the path

32

which the taste and interest of the public have
taken. If the direction of his talent accords
with that of the public, everything is gained.
Houwald hit this path with his 'Bild,' and
hence the universal applause he received.
Lord Byron, perhaps, would not have been
so fortunate, inasmuch as his tendency varied
from that of the public. /The greatness of
the poet is by no means the important mat-
ter. On the contrary, one who is little ele-
vated above the general public may often
gain the most general favor precisely on that
account."/ ^

We continued to converse about Byron,
and Goethe admired his extraordinary tal-
ent. "That which I call invention," said he,
"I never saw in any one in the world to a
greater degree than in him. His manner of
loosing a dramatic knot is always better than
one would anticipate."

"That," said I, "is what I feel about
Shakspere, especially when Falstaff has en-
tangled himself in such a net of falsehoods,
and when I ask myself what I should do to
help him out I find that Shakspere far sur-
passes all my ideas. That you say the same

33

of Lord Byron is the highest praise that
can be bestowed on him. Nevertheless," I
added, "the poet who takes a clear survey of
beginning and end has, by far, the advan-
tage with the experienced reader."

Goethe agreed with me, and laught to
think that Lord Byron, who, in practical life,
could never adapt himself, and never askt
about a law, finally subjected himself to the
stupidest of laws — that of the three unities.

"He understood the purpose of this law,"
said he, "no better than the rest of the
world. Comprehensibility is the purpose,
and the three unities are only so far good
as they conduce to this end. If the observ-
ance of them hinders the comprehension of
a work, it is foolish to treat them as laws,
and try to observe them. Even the Greeks,
from whom the rule was taken, did not al-
ways follow it. In the 'Phaeton' of Euripides,
and in other pieces, there is a change of place,
and it is obvious that good representation of
their subjects was with them more important
than blind obedience to a law, which, in it-
self, is of no great consequence. The pieces
of Shakspere deviate, as far as possible,

34

from the unities of time and place; but they
are comprehensible — nothing is more so —
and on this account the Greeks would have
found no fault with them. The French poets
have endeavored to follow more rigidly the
laws of the three unities, but they sin
against comprehensibility, inasmuch as they
show a dramatic law, not dramatically, but
by narration."

Tuesday, March 22nd. Last night, soon
after twelve o'clock, we were awakened by
an alarm of fire; we heard cries: "The
theater is on fire!" I at once threw on my
clothes, and hastened to the spot. The uni-
versal consternation was very great. Only
a few hours before we had been delighted
with the excellent acting of La Roche in Cum-
berland's "Jew," and Seidel had excited uni-
versal laughter by his good humor and jokes.
And now, in the place so lately the scene of
intellectual pleasures, raged the most terrible
element of destruction.

The fire, which was occasioned by the heat-
ing apparatus, appears to have broken out
in the pit; it soon spread to the stage and
the dry lath-work of the wings, and, as it
increased fearfully by the great quantity of

35

combustible material, it was not long before
the flames burst thru the roof, and the rafters
gave way.

I saw in beautiful eyes many tears, which
flowed for its downfall. I was no less toucht
by the grief of a member of the orchestra.
He wept for his burnt violin. As the day
dawned, I saw many pale countenances. I
remarkt several young girls and women of
high rank, who had awaited the result of
the fire during the whole night, and who now
shivered in the cold morning air. I returned
home to take a little rest, and in the course
of the forenoon I called upon Goethe.

The servant told me that he was unwell and
in bed. Still Goethe called me to his side.

"I have thought much of you, and pitied
you," said he. "What will you do with your
evenings now?"

"You know," returned I, "how passion-
ately I love the theater. When I came here,
two years ago, I knew nothing at all, except
three or four pieces which I had seen in Han-
over. . . . All was new to me, actors
as well as pieces; and twice, according to your
advice, I have given myself up entirely to the

36

impression of the subject, without much
thinking or reHecting. I can say with truth
that I have, during these two winters, past
at the theater the most innocent and most
agreeable hours that 1 have ever known. 1
was, moreover, so infatuated with the thea-
ter that I not only missed no performance,
but also obtained admission to the rehearsals;
nay, not contented with this, if, as I past in
the daytime, 1 chanced to find the doors
open, I would enter, and sit for half an hour
upon the empty benches in the pit, and imag-
ine scenes which might at some time be
played there."

"You are a crazy fellow," returned
Goethe, laughing; "but that is what I like.
Would to God that the whole public con-
sisted of such children! And in fact you are
right. Any one who is sufficiently young, and
who is not quite spoiled, could not easily find
any place that would suit him so well as a
theater. No one makes any demands upon
you; you need not open your mouth unless
you choose; on the contrary, you sit quite at
your ease like a king, and let everything pass
before you, and recreate your mind and
senses to your heart's content. /There is

37

poetry, there is painting, there are singing
and music, there is acting and what not be-
sides. When all these arts, and the charm
of youth and beauty heightened to a consid-
erable degree, work together on the same
evening, it is an occasion to which no other
can compare. But, even when part is bad
and part is good, it is still better than look-
ing out of the window, or playing a game
of whist in a close party amid the smoke of
cigars. The theater at Weimar is, as you feel,
by no means to be despised; it is still an old
trunk from our best time, to which new and
fresh talents have attacht themselves; and
we can still produce something which charms
and pleases, and at least gives the appear-.
ance of an organized whole."

"Would I had seen it twenty or thirty
years ago!" answered I.

"That was certainly a time," replied
Goethe, "when we were assisted by great
advantages. Consider that the tedious pe-
riod of the French taste had not long gone
by; that the public was not yet spoiled by
overexcitement; that the influence of Shak-
spere was in all its first freshness; that the
operas of Mozart were new; and, lastly, that

38

the pieces of Schiller were first produced
here year after year, and were given at the
theater of Weimar in all their first glory,
under his own superintendence. Consider
all this, I say, and you will imagine that, with
such dishes, a fine banquet was given to old
and young, and that we always had a grate-
ful public."

I remarkt, "Older persons, who lived in
those times, cannot praise highly enough the
elevated position which the Weimar theater
then held."

"I will not deny that it was of some ac-
count," returned Goethe. "The main point, ^
however, was this, that the Grand Duke left
my hands quite free, and I could do just as
I likt. I did not look to magnificent sce-
nery, and a brilliant wardrobe, but I lookt to
good pieces. From tragedy to farce, every
species was welcome; but a piece was obliged
to have something in it to find favor. It was
fiecessary that it should be great and clever,
cheerful and graceful, and, at all events,
healthy and containing some pith. All that
was morbid, weak, lachrymose and senti-
mental, as well as all that was frightful, hor-
rible and offensive to decorum, was utterly

39

excluded; I should have feared, by such ex-
pedients, to spoil both actors and audience.
''By means of good pieces I educated the
actors; for the study of excellence, and the
perpetual practice of excellence, must neces-
sarily make something of a man whom na-
ture has not left ungifted. I was, also, con-
stantly in personal contact with the actors.
I attended the readings of plays, and ex-
plained to every one his part; I was present
at the chief rehearsals, and talkt with the
actors as to any improvements that might
be made; I was never absent from a per-
formance, and pointed out the next day any-
thing which did not appear to me to be right.
By these means I advanced them in their art.
But I also sought to raise the whole class in
the esteem of society by introducing the best
and most promising into my own circle, and
thus showing to the world that I considered
them worthy of social intercourse with my-
self. The result of this was that the rest
of the higher society in Weimar did not re-
main behind me, and that actors and actresses
gained soon an honorable admission into the
best circles. By all this they acquired a great
personal as well as external culture. My

40

pupil Wolff, in Berlin, and our Diirand are
people of the finest tact in society. Oels and
Graff have enough of the higher order of
culture to do honor to the best circles.

"Schiller proceeded in the same spirit as
myself. He had a great deal of intercourse
with actors and actresses. He, like me, was
present at every rehearsal; and after every
successful performance of one of his pieces,
it was his custom to invite the actors, and to
spend a merry day with them. All rejoiced
together at that which had succeeded, and
discust how anything might be done better
next time. But even when Schiller joined
us, he found both actors and the public al-
ready cultivated to a high degree; and it Is
not to be denied that this conduced to the
rapid success of his pieces."

It gave me great pleasure to hear Goethe
speak so circumstantiallv upon a subject
which alwavs possest great interest for me,
and which, in consequence of the misfortune
of the previous night, was uppermost in my
mind.

"This burning of the house," said T, "in
which you and Schiller, during a long course
of years, effected so much good, in some de-

41

gree closes a great epoch, which will not soon
return for Weimar. You must at that time
have experienced great pleasure in your direc-
tion of the theater and its extraordinary

success."

"And not a little trouble and difficulty,"
returned Goethe with a sigh,

"It must be difficult," said I, "to keep such
a many-headed being in proper order."
\/ "A great deal," said Goethe, "may be done
by severity, more by love, but most by clear
discernment and impartial justice, which pays
no respect to persons.

"I had to beware of two enemies, which
might have been dangerous to me. The one
was my passionate love of talent, which
might easily have made me partial. The
other I will not mention, but you can guess
it. At our theater there was no want of
ladies, who were beautiful and young, and
who were possest of great mental charms. I
felt a passionate inclination towards many
of them, and sometimes it happened that I
was met half way. But I restrained myself,
and said. No further! I knew my position,
and also what I owed to it. I stood here, not
as a private man, but as chief of an establish-

42

I

ment, the prosperity of which was of more
consequence to me than a momentary gratifi-
cation. If I had involved myself in any love
affair, I should have been like a compass,
which cannot possibly point right, if it has a
powerful magnet beside it."

Sunday, March 27th. . . . The con-
versation then turned upon actors, and much
was said about the use and abuse of their
powers.

"I have, during my long practice," said
Goethe, "found that the main point is never
to allow any play, or scarcely any opera, to be
prepared for representation unless one can
look forward with some certainty to a good
success for years. No one sufficiently con-
siders the expenditure of power, which is
demanded for the preparation of a five-act
play, or even an opera of equal length. Yes,
my good friends, much is required before a
singer has thoroly mastered a part thru all
the scenes and acts, much more before the
choruses go as they ought.

• ••••••

"And then, when a good play or a good
opera has once been prepared for the stage,
it should be represented at short intervals —

43

be allowed to run as long as it draws, and
continues at all to fill the house. The same
plan would be applicable to a good old play,
or a good old opera, which has, perhaps,
been long laid aside, and which now requires
not a little fresh study to be reproduced with
success. Such a representation should be re-
peated at short intervals, as frequently as
the public shows any interest in it. The de-
sire always to have something new, and to
see only once, or at the most twice, a good
play or opera, which has been studied with
excessive pains, or even to allow the space
of six or eight weeks to elapse between such
repetitions, in which time a new study be-
comes necessary — all this is a real detriment
to the theater, and an unpardonable misuse
of the talents of the performers engaged in

(

it."

Goethe appeared to consider this matter
very important, and it seemed to lie so near
his heart that he became more excited than,
with his calm disposition, is often the case.

"In Italy," continued Goethe, "they per-
form the same opera every evening for four
or six weeks, and the Italians — big children
— by no means desire any change. The pol-

44

isht Parisian sees the classical plays of his
great poets so often that he knows them by
heart, and has a practist ear for the ac-
centuation of every syllable. Here, in Wei-
mar, they have done me the honor to perform
my 'Iphlgenia' and my 'Tasso,' but how
often? Scarcely once in three or four years.
The public finds them tedious. Very prob-
ably. The actors are not in practice to play
the pieces, and the public is not accustomed
to hear them. If, thru more frequent repe-
titions, the actors entered so much into the
spirit of their parts that their representation
gained life, as if it were not the result of
study, but as tho everything flowed from
their own hearts, the public would, assuredly,
no longer remain uninterested and unmoved.
"I really had the illusion once upon a time
that it was possible to form a German drama.
Nay, I even fancied that I myself could con-
tribute to it, and lay some foundation-stones
for such an edifice. I wrote my 'Iphigenia'
and my 'Tasso,' and thought, with a childish
hope, that thus it might be brought about.
But there was no emotion or excitement —
all remained as it was before. If I had pro-
duced an effect, and met with applause,

45

if in ; f

I would have written a round dozen of such
pieces as 'Iphigenia' and 'Tasso.' There
was no deficiency of material. But, as I
said, actors were wanting to represent such
pieces with life and spirit, and a public was
wanting to hear and receive them with sym-
pathy."

Thursday, April 14th. This evening at
Goethe's. Since conversations upon the the-
ater and theatrical management were now
the order of the day, I askt him upon what
maxims he proceeded in the choice of a new
member of the company.

"I can scarcely say," returned Goethe;
"I had various modes of proceeding. If a
striking reputation preceded the new actor, I
let him act, and saw how he suited the others;
whether his style and manner disturbed our
ensemble, or whether he would supply a de-
ficiency. If, however, he was a young man
who had never trodden a stage before, I
first considered his personal qualities;
whether he had about him anything prepos-
sessing or attractive, and, above all things,
whether he had control over himself. For
an actor who possesses no self-possession,
and who cannot appear before a stranger in

46

his most favorable light, has, in any case,
little talent. liis whole profession requires
continual self-concealment, and a continual
existence in a foreign mask.

"If his appearance and his deportment
pleased me, I made him read, in order to test
the power and extent of his voice, as well
as the capabilities of his mind. I gave him
some sublime passage from a great poet, to
see whether he was capable of feeling and
expressing what was really great; then some-
thing passionate and wild, to prove his
power. I then went to something markt by
sense and smartness, something ironical and
witty, to see how he treated such things, and
whether he possest sufficient versatility.
Then I gave him something in which was rep-
resented the pain of a wounded heart, the
suffering of a great soul, that I might learn
whether he had it in his power to express
pathos.

"If he satisfied me in all these numerous
particulars I had a well-grounded hope of
making him a very important actor. If he
appeared more capable in some particulars
than in others, I remarkt the line to which
he was most adapted. I also now knew his

47

I

weak points, and, above all, endeavored to
work upon him so that he might strengthen
and cultivate himself here. If I remarkt
faults of dialect, and what are called pro- |

vincialisms, I urged him to lay them aside,
and recommended to him social intercourse
and friendly practice with some member of
the stage who was entirely free from them.
I then askt him whether he could dance and I

fence; and if this were not the case, I would
hand him over for some time to the danc-
ing and fencing masters.

"If he were now sufficiently advanced to
make his appearance, I gave him at first such
parts as suited his individuality, and I de-
sired nothing but that he should represent
himself. If he now appeared to me of too
fiery a nature, I gave him phlegmatic char-
acters; if too calm and slow, I gave him
fiery and hasty characters, that he might thus
learn to lay aside himself and assume a for-
eign individuality."

The conversation turned upon the casting
of plays, upon which Goethe made, among
others, the following remarkable observa-
tions.

"It is a great error to think," said he, "that

48

an Indifferent piece may be played by indif-
ferent actors. A second or third-rate play
can be incredibly improved by the employ-
ment of Hrst-rate powers, and be made some-
thin*; really good. But if a second or third-
rate plav be performed by second or third-
rate actors, no one can wonder if it is utterly
ineffective. Second-rate actors are excellent
in great plays. They have the same effect
that the figures in half shade have in a pic-
ture; they serve admirably to show off more
powerfully those which have the full light."

Wednesday, April 20th. s^ poet who
writes for the stage must have a knowledge
of the stage,Nthat he may weigh the means
at his command, and know what is to be done,
and what is to be left alone; the opera-com-
poser, in like manner, should have some in-
sight into poetry, that he may know how to
distinguish the bad from the good, and not
apply his art to something impracticable.

"Carl Maria von Weber," said Goethe,
"should not have composed 'Euryanthe.' He
should have seen at once that this was a bad
material, of which nothing could be made.
So much insight we have a right to expect of
every composer, as belonging to his art."

49

Thus, too, the painter should be able to
distinguish subjects; for it belongs to his de-
partment to know what he has to paint, and
what to leave unpainted.

"But when all is said," observed Goethe,
"the greatest art is to limit and isolate one-
self."

Friday, April 29th. The building of the
new theater up to this time had advanced
very rapidly; the foundation walls had al-
ready risen on every side, and gave promise
of a very beautiful building.

But to-day, on going to the site of the
building, I saw, to my horror, that the work
was discontinued; and I heard it reported
that another party, opposed to Goethe and
Cowdray's plan, had at last triumphed; that
Cowdray had retired from the direction of
the building, and that another architect was
going to finish it after a new design, and
alter accordingly the foundation already laid.

I was deeply grieved at what I saw and
heard, for I had rejoiced, with many others,
at the prospect of seeing a theater arise in
Weimar executed according to Goethe's
practical view of a judicious internal arrange-

50

ment, and, as far as beauty was concerned,
in accordance with his cultivated taste.

But I also grieved for Goethe and Cow-
dray, who must both, more or less, feel hurt
by this event.

Sunday, May ist. Dined with Goethe.
It may be supposed that the alteration in
the building of the theater was the first sub-
ject we talkt upon. I had, as I said, feared
that this most unexpected measure would
deeply wound Goethe's feelings; but there
was no sign of it. I found him in the mild-
est and most serene frame of mind, quite
raised above all sensitive bitterness. . . .

"The Grand Duke," said Goethe, "dis-
closed to me his opinion that a theater need
not be of architectural magnificence, which
could, in general, not be contradicted. He
further said that it was nothing but a house
for the purpose of getting money. This view
appears at first sight rather material; but,
rightly considered, it is not without a higher
purport. For i^ a theater is not only to pay
its expenses, but is, besides, to make and save
money, everything about it must be excellent.
It must have the best management at its
head; the actors must be of the best; and

51

good pieces must continually be performed,
that the attractive power required to draw
a full house every evening may never cease.
But that is saying a great deal in a few
words — almost what is impossible."

"The Grand Duke's view," said I, "of
making the theater gain money appears to
be very practical, since it implies a neces-
sity of remaining continually on a summit
of excellence."

"Even Shakspere and Moliere," returned
Goethe, "had no other view. Both of them
wisht, above all things, to make money by
their theaters. In order to attain this, their
principal aim, they necessarily strove that
everything should be as good as possible, and
that, besides good old plays, there should
be some clever novelty to please and attract.
The prohibition of 'Tartuffe' was a thunder-
bolt to Moliere; but not so much for the
poet as for the director Moliere, who had to
consider the welfare of an important troupe,
and to find some means to procure bread
for himself and his actors.

"Nothing," continued Goethe, "is more
dangerous to the well-being of a theater than
when the director is so placed that a greater

52

or less receipt at the treasury does not affect
him personally, and he can live on in careless
security, knowing that, however the receipts
at the treasury may fail in the course of the
year, at the end of that time he will be able
to indemnify himself from another source.
It is a property of human nature soon to re-
lax when not impelled by personal advantage
or disadvantage. Now, it is not desirable
that a theater, in such a town as Weimar,
should support itself, and that no contribu-
tion from the Prince's treasury should be
necessary. But still everything has its
bounds and limits, and a thousand thalers
yearly, more or less, is by no means a trifling
matter, particularly as diminisht receipts and
deteriorations are dangers natural to a the-
ater; so that there is a loss not only of money,
but also of honor.

"If I were the Grand Duke, I would in
future, on any change in the management,
once for all appoint a fixt sum for an annual
contribution. I would strike the average of
the contributions during the last ten years,
and according to that I would settle a sum
sufficient to be regarded as a proper support.
With this sum the house would have to be

53

run. But then I would go a step further, and
say, that if the director and his stage-mana-
gers contrived, by means of judicious and
energetic management, to have an overplus in
the treasury at the end of the year, this over-
plus should be shared, as a remuneration, be-
tween the director, the stage-managers, and
the principal members of the company. Then
you would see what activity there would be,
and how the establishment would awaken
out of the drowsiness into which it must
gradually fall.

"Our theatrical laws," continued Goethe,
"contain various penalties; but there is no
single law for the encouragement and re-
ward of distinguisht merit. This is a great
defect. For if, with every failure, I have
a prospect of a deduction from my salary, I
should also have the prospect of a reward,
whenever I do more than can be properly
expected of me. And it is by every one's
doing more than can be hoped or expected
of him that a theater attains excellence."

We walkt up and down the garden, en-
joying the fine weather; we then sat upon a
bench with our backs against the young
leaves of a thick hedge. We spoke about

54

the bow of Ulysses, about the heroes of
Homer, then about the Greek, tragic poets,
and lastly about the widely diffused opinion
that Euripides caused the decline of the
Greek, drama. Goethe was by no means
of this opinion.

"Altogether," said he, "I am opposed to
the view that any single man can cause the
decline of an art. Much, which it is not so
easy to set forth, must co-operate to this
end. The decline of the tragic art of the
Greeks could no more have been caused by
Euripides than could that of sculpture by
any great sculptor who lived in the time of
Phidias, but was inferior to him. For when
an epoch is great, it proceeds in the path of
improvement, and an inferior production is
without results. But what a great epoch
was the time of Euripides ! It was the time,
not of a retrograde, but of a progressive
taste. Sculpture had not yet reached its high-
est point, and painting was still in its infancy.

"If the pieces of Euripides, compared with
those of Sophocles, had great faults, it was
not necessary that succeeding poets should
imitate these faults, and be spoilt by them.
But if they had great merits, so that some

55

of them were even preferable to plays of
Sophocles, why did not succeeding poets
strive to imitate their merits; and why did
they not thus become at least as great as
Euripides himself? But if after the three
celebrated tragic poets, there appeared no
equally great fourth, fifth, or sixth — this is,
indeed, a matter difficult to explain; never-
theless, we may have our own conjectures,
and approach the truth in some degree.

"Man is a simple being. And however
rich, varied, and unfathomable he may be,
the cycle of his conditions is soon run
through.

"If the same circumstances had occurred,
as with us poor Germans, for whom Lessing
has written two or three, I myself three or
four, and Schiller five or six passable plays,
there might easily have been room for a
fourth, fifth, and sixth tragic poet.

"But with the Greeks and the abundance
of their productions — for each of the three
great poets has written a hundred or nearly
a hundred pieces, and the tragical subjects of
Homer, and the heroic traditions, were some
of them treated three or four times — with
such abundance of existing works, I say, one

56

can well imagine that by degrees, subjects
were exhausted, and that any poet who
followed the three great ones would be
puzzled how to proceed.

"And, indeed, for what purpose should he
write? Was there not, after all, enough for
a time? And were not the productions of
i^schylus, Sophocles, and Euripides of that
kind and of that depth that they might be
heard again and again without being es-
teemed trite or put on one side? Even the
few noble fragments which have come down
to us are so comprehensive and of such deep
significance that we poor Europeans have al-
ready busied ourselves with them for cen-
turies, and shall find nutriment and work in
them for centuries still."

Thursday, May 12th. Goethe spoke with
much enthusiasm of Menander. "I know no
one, after Sophocles," said he, "whom I love
so well. He is thoroughly pure, noble, great,
and cheerful, and his grace is unattainable.
It is certainly to be lamented that we possess
so little of him, but that little is invaluable,
and highly instructive to gifted men.

"The great point is, that he from whom
we would learn should be congenial to our

57

V

I

nature. Now, Calderon, for Instance, great
as he is, and much as I admire him, has ex-
erted no influence over me for good or for
ill. But he would have been dangerous to
Schiller — he would have led him astray; and
hence it is fortunate that Calderon was not
generally known in Germany until after
Schiller's death. Calderon is infinitely great
in the technical and theatrical; Schiller, on
the contrary, far more sound, earnest, and
great in his intentions, and it would have
been a pity if he had lost any of these vir-
tues, without, after all, attaining to the great-
ness of Calderon in other respects."

We spoke of Moliere. "Moliere," said
Goethe, **is so great, that one is astonisht
anew every time one reads him. He is a
man by himself — his pieces border on trag-
edy; they are enthralling; and no one has
the courage to imitate them. His 'Avare,'
where vice destroys all the natural piety be-
tween father and son, is especially great, and
in a high sense tragic. But when, in a Ger-
man paraphrase, the son is changed Into a
relation, the whole is weakened, and loses Its
significance. They feared to show vice In Its
true nature, as he did; but what Is tragic

58

there, or indeed anywhere, except what is
intolerable?

"I read some pieces of Moliere's every
year, just as, from time to time, I contem-
plate the engravings after the great Italian
masters. For we little men are not able to
retain the greatness of such things within
ourselves; we must therefore return to them
from time to time and renew our impres-
sions.

/ "People are always talking about orig-
inality; but what do they mean? As soon as
we are born, the world begins to work upon
us, and this goes on to the end. And, after
all, what can we call our own except energy,
strength, and will? If I could give an ac-
count of all that I owe to great predecessors
and contemporaries, there would be but a
small balance in my favor." .

Sunday, December 25th. Goethe then
showed me a very important English work,
which illustrated all Shakspere in copper
plates. Each page embraced, in six small de-
signs, one piece with some verses written be-
neath, so that the leading Idea and the most
Important situations of each work were
brought before the eyes. All these immortal

59

tragedies and comedies thus past before
the mind like processions of masks.

"It is even terrifying," said Goethe, "to
look thru these little pictures. Thus are we
first made to feel the infinite wealth and
grandeur of Shakspere. There is no motive
in human life which he has not exhibited and
expresti And all with what ease and free-
dom! But we cannot talk about Shakspere;
everything is inadequate. I have toucht
upon the subject in my 'Wilhelm Meister,'
but that is not saying much. / He is not a the-
atrical poet; he never thought of the stage;
it was far too narrow for his great mind:
nay, the whole visible world was too narrowj
He is even too rich and too powerful. A
productive nature ought not to read more
than one of his dramas in a year if it would
not be wrecked entirely. I did well to get
rid of him by writing "Gotz von Berlichin-
gen' and 'Egmont,' and Byron did well by
not having too much respect for him, but
going his own way. How many excellent
Germans have been ruined by him and Cal-
deron I

"Shakspere gives us golden apples in silver
dishes. We get, indeed, the silver dishes by

60

studying his works; but, unfortunately, wc
have only potatoes to put into them."

1 laught, and was delighted with this ad-
mirable simile.

Goethe then read me a letter from Zeltcr,
describing a representation of 'Macbeth' at
Berlin, where the music could not keep pace
with the grand spirit and character of the
piece, as Zelter set forth by various intima-
tions. By Goethe's reading, the letter gained
its full effect, and he often paused to admire
with me the point of some single passage.

" 'Macbeth,' said Goethe, "I consider
Shakspere's best acting play, the one in which
he shows most understanding with respect
to the stage. But would you see his mind
unfettered, read 'Troilus and Cressida,'
where he treats the materials of the 'Iliad'
in his own fashion."

6i

i826

Sunday, January 29th. — The conversation
now turned upon the theater, and the weak,
sentimental, gloomy character of modern
productions.

"Moliere is my strength and consolation
at present," said I; "I have translated his
'Avare,' and am now busy with his 'Medicin
malgre lui.' Moliere is indeed a great, a real
{reiner) man."

"Yes," said Goethe, "a real man; that is
the proper term. There is nothing distort-
ed about him. And such greatness! He
ruled the manners of his day, while, on the
contrary, our Iffland and Kotzebue allowed
themselves to be ruled by theirs, and were
limited and confined in them. Moliere chas-
tised men by drawing them just as they
were."

'T would give something," said I, "to see
his plays acted in all their purity! Yet such
things are much too strong and natural for
the public, so far as I am acquainted with it.

62

Is not this over-refinement to be attributed
to the so-called ideal literature of certain
authors?"

"No," said Goethe, "it has its source in
society itself. What business have our young
girls at the theater? They do not belong to
it — they belong to the convent; and the
theater is only for men and women, who
know something of human affairs. When
iMoliere wrote, girls were in the convent, and
he was not forced to think about them. But
since we cannot get rid of these young girls
nowadays, and pieces which are weak and
therefore suited to girls continue to be pro-
duced, be wise and stay away, as I do. I
was really Interested in the theater only so
long as I could have a practical influence
upon it. It was my delight to bring the es-
tablishment to a high degree of perfection;
y and when there was a performance, my in-
terest was not so much in the pieces as in
observing whether the actors played as they
ought. The faults I wisht to point out I
sent in writing to the stage-manager, and was
sure they would be avoided on the next rep-
resentation. Now that I can no longer have
any practical influence in the theater I feel

63

no call to enter it; I should be forced to
endure defects without being able to amend
them; and that would not suit me. And with
the reading of plays, it is no better. The
young German poets are eternally sending
me tragedies; but what am I to do with
them? I have never read German plays ex-
cept with the view of seeing whether I could
have them acted; in every other respect they
were indifferent to me. What am I to do
now, in my present situation, with the pieces
of these young people? I can gain nothing
for myself by reading how things ought not
to be done; and I cannot assist the young
poets in a matter which Is already finlsht.
If, Instead of their printed plays, they would
send me the plan of a play, I could at least
say, 'Do it,' or 'Leave it alone,' or 'Do it
this way,' or 'Do it that'; and in this there
might be some use."

Wednesday, July 26th. This evening I
had the pleasure of hearing Goethe say a
great deal about the theater.

I told him that one of my friends intended
to arrange Lord Byron's 'Two Foscarl' for
the stage. Goethe doubted his success.

64

"It is indeed a temptation," he said.
"When a piece makes a deep impression on
us in reading, we think it will do the same
on the stage, and that we could obtain such
a result with little trouble. But this is by
no means the case. A piece that is not orig-
inally, by the intent and skill of the poet,
written for the boards will not succeed; but
whatever is done to it will always remain
somewhat unmanageable and unacceptable.^
What trouble have I taken with my 'Gotz
von Berlichlngen!' yet it will not go right
as an acting play, but is too long; and I
have been forced to divide it into two parts,
of which the last is indeed theatrically ef-
fective, while the first is to be lookt upon
as a mere introduction. If the first part
were given only once as an introduction, and
then the second repeatedly, it might succeed.
It is the same with 'Wallenstein' : the *Pic-
colomini' does not bear repetition, but 'Wal-
lenstein's Death' is always seen with delight."

I asked how a piece must be constructed
so as to be fit for the theater. ..

"It must be symbolical," replied Goethe;
"that is to say, each incident must be sig-
nificant in itself, and lead to another still

65

<e-

more importanty The 'Tartuffe' of Moliere
is, in this respect, a great example. Only
think what an exposition the first scene is !
From the very beginning everything is high-
ly significant, and leads us to expect some-
thing still more important which is to come.
The exposition of Lessing's 'Minna von
Barnhelm' is also admirable; but that of the
'Tartuffe' comes only once into the world;
it is the greatest and best thing that exists
of the kind."

We then came to the pieces of Calderon.

"In Calderon," said Goethe, "you find the
same perfect adaptation to the theater. His
pieces are throughout fit for the boards:
there is not a touch in them which is not
directed towards the required eflfect. Cal-
deron is a genius who had also the finest
understanding."

"It is singular," said I, "that the dramas
of Shakspere are not theatrical pieces, prop-
erly so called, since he wrote them all for
his theater,"

"Shakspere," replied Goethe, "wrote those
pieces direct from his own nature. Then,
too, his age, and the existing arrangements
of the stage, made no demands upon him;

66

people were forced to put up with whatever
he gave them. But if Shakspere had writ-
ten for the court of Madrid, or for the the-
ater of Louis XIV, he would probably have
adapted himself to a severer theatrical form.
This, however, is by no means to be re-
gretted, for what Shakspere has lost as a the-
atrical poet he has gained as a poet in gen-
eral. Shakspere is a great psychologist, and
we learn from his pieces the secrets of hu-
man nature." ^

We then talked of the difficulties in man-
aging a theater.

"The difficulty of it," said Goethe, "is so
to deal with contingencies that we are not
tempted to deviate from our higher maxims.
Among the higher maxims is this : to keep a
good repertory of excellent tragedies, operas,
and comedies, which can be adhered to, and
which may be regarded as permanent.
Among contingencies, I reckon a new piece
about which the public Is anxious, a starring
engagement, and so forth. We must not be
led astray by things of this kind, but always
return to our repertory. Our time is so rich
In really good pieces that nothing is easier
to one who knows how than to form a good

67

repertory; but nothing is more difficult than
to maintain one.

"When Schiller and I superintended the
theater, we had the great advantage of play-
ing through the summer at Lauchstedt.
There we had a select audience, who would
have nothing but what was excellent; so we
always returned to Weimar thoroly prac-
tised in the best plays, and could repeat all
our summer performances in the winter. Be-
sides, the Weimar public had confidence in
our management, and, even in the case of
things they could not appreciate, they were
convinced that we acted in accordance with
some higher view.

"When the nineties began," continued
Goethe, "the proper period of my interest
in the theater was already past, and I wrote
nothing for the stage, but wisht to devote
myself to epic poetry. Schiller revived my
extinct interest, and, for the sake of his
works, I again took part in the theater. At
the time of my 'Clavigo,' I could easily have
written a dozen theatrical pieces. I had no
want of subjects, and production was easy
to me. I might have written a piece every
week, and I am sorry I did not."

68

Wednesday, November 8th. To-day,
Goethe spoke again of Lord Byron with ad-
miration. "1 have," said he, "read once
more his 'Deformed Transformed,' and must
say that to me his talent appears greater
than ever. His devil was suggested by my
Mephistophiles; but it is no imitation — it
is thoroly new and original, and every-
where compact, genuine, and spirited. There
are no weak passages — not a place where
you could put the head of a pin, where you
do not find invention and thought. Were it
not for his hypochondriacal negative turn, t
he would be as great as Shakspere and the
ancients."

Wednesday, December 20th. The Berlin
papers were brought in, and Goethe sat down
to read them. He handed one of them to
me, and I found in the theatrical intelligence
that at the opera house and the theater royal
they gave just as bad pieces as they gave
here. "How should it be otherwise?" said
Goethe. "There is no doubt that with the
help of good English, French and Spanish
pieces, a repertory can be formed sufficiently
abundant to furnish a good piece every eve-
ning. But what need is felt by the nation al-

69

'L

ways to see good pieces? The time in which
iEschylus, Sophocles — and Euripides wrote
was different. Then there was mind enough
to desire only what was really greatest and
best. But in our miserable times, where is
felt a need for the best? Where are the or-
gans to appreciate it?

"And then," continued Goethe, "people
wish to have something new. In Berlin or
Paris, the public is always the same. A quan-
tity of new pieces are written and brought
out in Paris, and you must endure five or six
thoroly bad ones before you are compensated
by a single good one. The only expedient
to keep up a German theater at the present
time is that of starring. If I had the direc-
tion of a theater now, the whole winter
should be provided with excellent stars.
Thus, not only would all the good pieces be
repeated, but the interest of the audience
would be led more from the pieces to the
acting; a power of comparing and judging
would be acquired; the public would gain in
penetration, and the superior acting of a dis-
tinguished star would maintain our own ac-
tors in a state of excitement and emulation.
As I said before, keep on with your star-

70

ring, and you will be astonisht at the bene-
fit that will accrue both to the theater and
the public. I foresee a time when a clever
man, who understands the matter, will take
four theaters at once, and provide them with
stars by turn. And I am sure he will keep
his ground better with these four than if he
had only one."

71

1827

Wednesday, January 17th. We talkt of
Schiller's 'Fiesco,' which was acted last Sat-
urday. "I saw it for the first time," said I,
"and have been much occupied with thinking
whether those extremely rough scenes could
not be softened; but I find very little could
be done to them without spoiling the char-
acter of the whole."

"You are right — it cannot be done," re-
plied Goethe. "Schiller often talkt with
me on the matter; for he himself could not
endure his first plays, and would never allow
them to be acted while he had the direction
of the theater. At last we were in want of
pieces, and would willingly have gained those
three powerful firstlings for our repertory.
But we found it impossible; all the parts were
too closely interwoven one with another; so
that Schiller himself despaired of accomplish-
ing the plan, and found himself constrained
to give it up, and leave the pieces just as
they were."

72

'* 'Tis a pity," said I; "for, notwithstand-
ing all their roughness, I love them a thou-
sand times better than the weak, forced, and
unnatural pieces of some of the best of our
later tragic poets. A grand intellect and
character is felt in everything of Schiller's."

"Yes," said Goethe, "Schiller might do
what he would, he could not make anything
which would not come out far greater than
the best things of these later people. Even
when he cut his nails, he showed he was
greater than these gentlemen." We laught
at this striking metaphor.

"But I have known persons," continued
he, "who could never be content with those
first dramas of Schiller. One summer, at a
bathing place, I was walking thru a very
secluded, narrow path, which led to a mill.

There Prince met me, and as at the

same moment some mules laden with meal-
sacks came up to us we were obliged to get
out of the way and enter a small house.
Here, in a narrow room, we fell, after the
fashion of that prince, into deep discussion
about things divine and human; we also came
to Schiller's 'Robbers,' when the prince ex-
prest himself thus: *If I had been the Deity

73

on the point of creating the world, and had
foreseen, at the moment, that Schiller's 'Rob-
bers' would have been written in it, I would
have left the world uncreated.' " We could
not help laughing. "What do you say to
that?" said Goethe; "that is a dislike which
goes pretty far, and which one can scarcely
understand."

"There is nothing of this dislike," I ob-
served, "in our young people, especially our
students. The most excellent and matured
pieces by Schiller and others may be per-
formed, and we shall see but few young peo-
ple and students in the theater; but if Schil-
ler's 'Robbers' or Schiller's 'Fiesco' is given,
the house is almost filled by students alone."

"So it was," said Goethe, "fifty years ago,
and so it will probably be fifty years hence.
What a young man has written is always best
enjoyed by young people. Do not let us
imagine that the world will so much advance
in culture and good taste that young people
will pass over the ruder epoch. Even if the
world progresses generally, youth will al-
ways begin at the beginning, and the epochs
of the world's accomplishment will be repeat-
ed in the individual. This has ceased to ir-

74

ritate me, and a long time ago I made a verse
in this fashion:

Still let the bonfire blaze away,

Let pleasure never know decay;

Old brooms to stumps are always worn,

And youngsters every day are born.

Wednesday, January 31st. We talkt of
Alexander Manzoni; and Goethe told me
that Count Reinhard, not long since, saw
Manzoni at Paris, where, as a young author
of celebrity, he had been well received in so-
ciety, and that he was now living happily on
his estate, in the neighborhood of Milan, with
a young family and his mother.

"Manzoni," continued he, "lacks nothing
except to know what a good poet he is, and
what rights belong to him as such. He has
too much respect for history, and on this
account is always adding notes to his pieces,
in which he shows how faithful he has been
to detail. Now, tho his facts may be his-
torical his characters are not so, any more
than my 'Thoas' and 'Iphigenia.' No poet has
ever known the historical characters which
he has painted; if he had, he could scarcely
have made use of them. The poet mus'
know what effects he wishes to produce, and

15

'.'I'

regulate the nature of his characters accord-
ingly. If I had tried to make Egmont as
history represents him, the father of a dozen
children, his light-minded proceedings
would have appeared very absurd. I needed
an Egmont more in harmony with his own
actions and my poetic views; and this Is, as
Clarchen says, my Egmont.

"What would be the use of poets if they
only repeated the record of the historian?
The poet must go farther, and give us, if
possible, something higher and better. All
the characters of Sophocles bear something
of that great poet's lofty soul; and It Is the
same with the characters of Shakspere. Thls.^
Is as It ought to be. Nay, Shakspere goes
farther, and makes his Romans Englishmen;
and there, too, he Is right; for otherwise his
nation would not have understood him.

"Here, again," continued Goethe, "the
Greeks were so great that they regarded
fidelity to historic facts less than the treat-
ment of them by the poet. We have, for-
tunately, a fine example in Philoctetes, which
subject has been treated by all three of the
great tragedians, and last and best by
Sophocles."

76

Thursday, February ist. Goethe had a
volume of the 'Theory of Colors' before
him.

I read as far as those interesting para-
graphs where it is taught that the eye has
need of change, since it never willingly dwells
on the same color, but always requires an-
other, and that so urgently that it produces
colors itself if it does not actually find them.

This remark, led our conversation to a
great law which pervades all nature, and on
which all life and all the joy of life depend.
"This," said Goethe, "is the case not only
with all our other senses, but also with our
higher spiritual nature; and it is because the
eye is so eminent a sense, that this 'law of
required change' is so striking and so espe-
cially clear with respect to colors. We have
dances which please us in a high degree on
account of the alteration of major and minor,
while dances in only one of these modes
weary us at once."

"The same law," said I, "seems to lie at
the foundation of a good style, where we
like to avoid a sound which we have just
heard. Even on the stage a great deal might
be done with this law, if it were well applied.

77

Plays, especially tragedies, in which a uni-
form tone uninterrupted by change prevails,
have always something wearisome about
them; and if the orchestra plays melancholy,
depressing music during the intermissions of
a melancholy piece, we are tortured by an
insupportable feeling, which we would escape
by all possible means."

"Perhaps," said Goethe, "the lively scenes
introduced into Shakspere's tragedies rest
upon this 'law of required change,' but it does
not seem applicable to the higher tragedy
of the Greeks, where, on the contrary, a cer-
tain fundamental tone pervades the whole."

"The Greek tragedy," said I, "is not of
such a length as to be rendered wearisome by
one pervading tone. Then there is an inter-
change of chorus and dialog; and the sublime
spirit is of such a kind that it cannot become
fatiguing since a certain genuine reality,
which is always of a cheerful nature, con-
stantly underlies it."

"You may be right," said Goethe; "and
it would be well worth the trouble to inves-
tigate how far the Greek tragedy is subject
to the general 'law of required change.' You
see how all things are connected with each

78

other, and how a law respecting the theory
of colors can lead to an inquiry into Greek
tragedy. We must only take care not to push
such a law too far, and make it the founda-
tion for much besides. We shall go more
safely if we only apply it by analogy as an
example."

Wednesday, February 7th. To-day
Goethe spoke severely of certain critics who
were not satisfied with Lessing, and made
unjust demands upon him. "When people,"
said he, "compare the pieces of Lessing with
those of the ancients, and call them paltry
and miserable, what is one to say? Rather
let us pity the extraordinary man for being
obliged to live in a pitiful time, which af-
forded him no better materials than are treat-
ed in his pieces; pity him, because in his
Minna von Barnhelm,' he found nothing bet-
ter to do than to occupy himself with the
squabbles of Saxony and Prussia. His con-
stant political turn, too, resulted from the
badness of his time. In 'Emilia Galotti,' he
vented his pique against princes; in 'Nathan,'
against the priests."

Wednesday, March 28th. "When we,"
continued Goethe, "for our modern purposes,

79

wish to learn how to conduct ourselves upon
the stage, Moliere is the man to whom we
should apply. Do you know his 'Malade
Imaginaire' ? There is a scene in it which,
as often as I read the piece, appears to me
the symbol of a perfect knowledge of the
boards. I mean the scene where the 'Malade
Imaginaire' asks his little daughter Louison
if there has not been a young man in the
chamber of her eldest sister. Now, any
other who did not understand his craft so
well would have let the little Louison plainly
tell the fact at once, and there would have
been the end of the matter.

"But what various motives for delay arc
introduced by MoUere into this examination,
for the sake of life and effect! He first
makes the little Louison act as if she did
not understand her father; then she denies
that she knows anything; then, threatened
with the rod, she falls down as if dead; then,
when her father bursts out in despair, she
springs up from her feigned swoon with
roguish hilarity, and at last, little by little,
she confesses all. My explanation can only
give you a very meager notion of the ani-
mation of the scene ; but read this scene your-

80

self till you become thoroly imprest with
its theatrical worth, and you will confess that
there is more practical instruction contained
in it than in all the theories in the world.

"I have known and loved Moliere," con-
tinued Goethe, "from my youth, and have
learned from him during my whole life. 1 1
never fail to read some of his plays every 1
year, that I may keep up a constant inter-
course with what is excellent. It is not mere-
ly the perfectly artistic treatment which de-
lights me; but particularly the amiable na-
ture, the highly formed mind, of the poet.
There is in him a grace and a feeling for the
decorous, and a tone of good society, which
his innate beautiful nature could only attain
by daily intercourse with the most eminent
men of his age. Of Menander, I only know
the few fragments ; but these give me so high
an idea of him, that I look upon this great
Greek as the only man who could be com-
pared to Moliere."

"I am happy," returned I, "to hear you
speak so highly of Moliere. This sounds n
little different from Herr von Schlegel ! I
have to-day, with great repugnance, swal-
lowed what he says concerning Moliere in

gi

his lectures on dramatic poetry. He quite
looks down upon him as a vulgar buffoon
who has only seen good society at a distance,
and whose business it was to invent all sorts
of farces for the amusement of his lord. In
these low farces Schlegel admits he was most
happy, but thinks he stole the best of them,
that he was obliged to force himself into
the higher school of comedy, and never suc-
ceeded in it."

"To a man like Schlegel," returned
Goethe, "a genuine nature like Moliere's is
a veritable thorn in the eye; he feels that he
has nothing in common with him, he cannot
endure him. The 'Misanthrope,' which I
read over and over again, as one of my most
favorite pieces, is repugnant to him; he is
forced to praise 'Tartuffe' a little, but he
lets him down again as much as he can.
Schlegel cannot forgive Moliere for ridicul-
ing the affectation of learned ladies; he feels,
probably, as one of my friends has remarkt,
that he himself would have been ridiculed if
he had lived with Moliere.

"It is not to be denied," continued Goethe,
"that Schlegel knows a great deal, and one
is almost terrified at his extraordinary at-

82

tainments and his extensive reading. But this
is not enough. All the learning in the world
is still no judgment. His criticism is com-
pletely one-sided, because in all theatrical
pieces he merely regards the skeleton of the
plot and arrangement, and only points out
small points of resemblance to great prede-
cessors, without troubling himself in the least
as to what the author brings forward of
graceful life and the culture of a noble soul.
But of what use are all the arts of a talent
if we do not find in a theatrical piece an
amiable or great personality of the author?
This alone influences the cultivation of the
people. I look upon the manner in which
Schlegel has treated the French drama as a
sort of recipe for the formation of a bad
critic, who is wanting in every organ for the
veneration of excellence, and who passes over
a sound nature and a great character as if
they were chaff and stubble."

"Shakspere and Calderon, on the other
hand," I replied, "he treats justly, and even
with decided affection."

"Both," returned Goethe, "are of such a
kind that one cannot say enough in praise of
them, altho I should not have wondered if

83

Schlegel had scornfully depreciated them
also. Thus he is also just to i^schylus and
Sophocles ; but this does not seem to arise so
much from a lively conviction of their ex-
traordinary merit as from the tradition
among philologists to place them both very
high; for, in fact, Schlegel's own little person
Is not sufficient to comprehend and adequate-
ly to appreciate such lofty natures. If this
had been the case, he would have been just
to Euripides too, and would have gone to
work with him in a different manner. But he
knows that philologists do not estimate him
very highly, and he therefore feels no little
delight that he is permitted, upon such high
authority, to fall foul of this mighty ancient,
and to schoolmaster him as much as he can.
I do not deny that Euripides has his faults;
but he was always a very respectable com-
petitor with Sophocles and i^^schylus. If he
did not possess the great earnestness and the
severe artistic completeness of his two pred-
ecessors, and as a dramatic poet treated
things a little more leniently and humanelv,
he probably knew his Athenians well enough
to be aware that the chord which he struck
was the right one for his contemporaries.

84

A poet whom Socrates called his friend,
whom Aristotle lauded, whom Menander
admired, and for whom Sophocles and the
city of Athens put on mourning on hearing
of his death, must certainly have amounted
to something. If a modern man like Schle-
gel must pick, out faults in so great an an-
cient, he ought only to do it upon his knees."

Sunday, April ist. In the evening with
Goethe. I converst with him upon the yes-
terday's performance of his 'Iphigenia,' in
which Herr Kriiger, from the Theater Royal
at Berlin, played Orestes with great ap-
plause.

"The piece," said Goethe, "has its diffi-
culties. It is rich in internal but poor in ex- |
ternal life; the point is to make the internal I
life come out. It is full of the most ef-
fective means, arising from the various hor-
rors which form the foundation of the piece.
The printed words are indeed only a faint
reflex of the life which stirred within me dur-
ing the composition of the piece, but the ac-
tor must bring us back to this first fire which
animated the poet with respect to his sub-
ject. We wish to see the vigorous Greeks
and heroes, with the fresh sea-breezes blow-

8S

ing upon them, who, oppressed and torment-
ed by various ills and dangers, speak out
strongly as their hearts prompt them. But
we want none of those feeble, sentimental
actors who have only just learned their part
by rote, and least of all do we want those
who are not even perfect in their parts.

"I must confess that I have never succeed-
ed in witnessing a perfect representation of
my 'Iphigenia.' That was the reason why I
did not go yesterday; for I suffer dreadfully
when I have to do with these specters who
do not manifest themselves as they
ought." . . .

"An actor," said Goethe, "should prop-
erly go to school to a sculptor and a painter;
for, in order to represent a Greek hero, it
is necessary for him to study carefully the
antique sculptures which have come down to
us, and to impress on his mind the natural
grace of their sitting, standing, and walking.
But the merely bodily is not enough. He
must also, by diligent study of the best an-
cient and modem authors, give a great culti-
vation to his mind. This will not only assist
him to understand his part, but will also give
a higher tone to his whole being and his

86

whole deportment. But tell me more!
What else did you see good in him?"

"It appeared to me," said I, "that he
possest great love for his subject. He had
by diligent study made every detail clear to
himself, so that he lived and moved in his
hero with great freedom; and nothing re-
mained which he had not made entirely his
own. Thence arose a just expression and a
just accentuation for every word, together
with such certainty, that the prompter was
for him a quite superfluous person."

"I am pleased with this," said Goethe;
"this is as it ought to be. Nothing is more ,,.-7>L/
dreadful than when the actors are not mas-
ters of their parts, and at every new sen-
tence must listen to the prompter. By this
their acting becomes a mere nullity, without
any life and power. When the actors are
not perfect in their parts in a piece like my
'Iphigenia,' it is better not to play it; for the
piece can have success only when all goes
surely, rapidly, and with animation. How-
ever, I am glad that it went off so well with
Kriiger. Zelter recommended him to me,
and I should have been annoyed if he had
not turned out so well as he has. I will have

87

a little joke with him, and will present him
with a prettily bound copy of my 'Iphigenia,'
with some verses inscribed in reference to
his acting."

The conversation then turned upon the
'Antigone' of Sophocles, and the high moral
tone prevailing in it; and, lastly, upon the
question — how the moral element came into
the world?

"Thru God himself," returned Goethe, "like
everything else which is good. It is no prod-
uct of human reflection, but a beautiful nat-
ural quality inherent and inborn. It is, more
or less, inherent in mankind generally, but
to a high degree in a few eminently gifted
minds. These have, by great deeds or doc-
trines, manifested their divine nature; which,
then, by the beauty of its appearance, won
the love of men, and powerfully attracted
them to reverence and emulation."

"A consciousness of the worth of the mor-
ally beautiful and good could be attained by
experience and wisdom, inasmuch as the bad
showed itself in its consequences as a de-
stroyer of happiness, both in individuals and
the whole body, while the noble and right
seemed to produce and secure the happiness

88

of one and all. Thus the morally beautiful
could become a doctrine, and diffuse itself
over whole nations as something plainly ex-
prest."

"I have lately read somewhere," an-
swered I, "the opinion that the Greek trag^
edy had made moral beauty a special object."

"Not so much morality," returned Goethe,
"as pure humanity in its whole extent; espe-
cially in such positions where, by falling into
contact with rude power, it could assume a
tragic character. In this region, indeed, even
the moral stood as a principal part of hu-
man nature. The morality of Antigone, be-
sides, was not invented by Sophocles, but was •
contained in the subject, which Sophocles
chose the more readily, as it united so much
dramatic effect with moral beauty."

Goethe then spoke about the characters of
Creon and Ismene, and on the necessit)^ of
these two persons for the development of
the beautiful soul of the heroine.

"All that is noble," said he, "is in itself
of a quiet nature, and appears to sleep until
it is aroused and summoned forth by con-
trast. Such a contrast is Creon, who is
brought in, partly on account of Antigone,

89

in order that her noble nature and the right
which is on her side may be brought out by
him, partly on his own account, in order that
his unhappy error may appear odious to us.

"But, as Sophocles meant to display the
elevated soul of his heroine even before the
deed, another contrast was requisite by which
her character might be developed; and this
is her sister Ismene. In this character the
poet has given us a beautiful standard of
the commonplace, so that the greatness of
Antigone, which is far above such a standard,
is the more strikingly visible."

The conversation then turned upon dra-
matic authors in general, and upon the im-
portant influence which they exerted, and
could exert, upon the great mass of the
people.

"A great dramatic poet," said Goethe, "if
he Is at the same time productive, and is
actuated by a strong, noble purpose, which
pervades all his works, may succeed in mak-
ing the soul of his pieces become the soul of
the people. I should think that this was
something well worth the trouble. From
Corneille proceeded an influence capable of
forming heroes. This was something for

90

Napoleon, who had need of an heroic peo-
ple; on which account, he said of Corneille
that if he were still living he would make a
prince of him. //A dramatic poet who knows
his vocation snould therefore work inces-
santly at its higher development, in order
that his influence on the people may be noble
and beneficial. /y

"One should not study contemporaries and
competitors, but the great men of antiquity,
whose works have, for centuries, received
equal homage and consideration. Indeed, a
man of really superior endowments will feel
the necessity of this, and it is just this need
for an intercourse with great predecessors,
which is the sign of a higher talent. Let us
study Moliere, let us study Shakspere, but
above all things, the old Greeks, and always
the Greeks."

Wednesday, April i8th. At dinner wc
were very cheerful. . . .

"I will treat you to something good, by
way of dessert," said Goethe. With these
words he placed before me a landscape by
Rubens.

"You have," said he, "already seen this
picture; but one cannot look often enough

9r

at anything really excellent; — ^besides, there
is something very particular attacht to this.
Will you tell me what you see?"

"I begin from the distance," said I. "I
see in the remotest background a very clear
sky, as if after sunset. Then, still in the
extreme distance, a village and a town, in
the light of evening. In the middle of the
picture there is a road, along which a flock
of sheep is hastening to the village. At the
right hand of the picture are several hay-
stacks, and a wagon which appears well
laden. *Unharnessed horses are grazing
near. On one side, among the bushes, are
several mares with their foals, which appear
as tho they were going to remain out of
doors all night. Then, nearer to the fore-
ground, there is a group of large trees; and
lastly, quite in the foreground to the top,
there are various laborers returning home-
wards."

"But," continued I with surprise, "the fig-
ures cast their shadows into the picture; the
group of trees, on the contrary, cast theirs

*0'bviously, as Oxenford notes, the proper word here,
tho the text has 'angeschirrt' — 'harnessed.'

92

towards the spectator. We thus have light
from different sides, which is contrary to
Nature."

"That is the point," returned Goethe with
a smile. "It is by this that Rubens proves
himself great, and shows to the world that
he, with a free spirit, stands above Nature,
and treats her unfavorably to his high pur-
poses. The double light is certainly a vio-
lent expedient, and you are certainly justi-
fied in saying that it is contrary to Nature.
But if it is contrary to Nature, I still say
that it is superior to Nature; I say it is the
bold stroke of the master, by which he, in a
genial manner, proclaims to the world that
art is not entirely subject to natural neces-
sities, but has laws of its own." . . .

"Are there not," said I, "bold strokes of
artistic fiction similar to this double light of
Rubens to be found in literature?"

"We need not go far," said Goethe, after
some reflection; "I could show you a dozen
of them in Shakspere. Only take 'Macbeth.'
When the lady would animate her husband
to the deed, she says —

I have given suck, and know
How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me.

93

Whether this be true or not does not ap-
pear; but the lady says it, and she must say
it in order to give emphasis to her speech.
But in the course of the piece, when Macduff
hears of the account of the destruction of
his family, he exclaims in wild rage —

He has no children!

These words of Macduff contradict those of
Lady Macbeth; but this does not trouble
Shakspere. The grand point with him is the
force of each speech; and as the lady, in or-
der to give the highest emphasis to her words,
must say 'I have given suck,' so, for the
same purpose, Macduff must say 'he has no
children.'

"Generally," continued Goethe, "we must
not judge too exactly and narrowly of the
pencil touches of a painter, or the words of a
poet; we should rather contemplate and
enjoy a work of art that has been produced
in a bold and free spirit, with the same spirit,
if we possibly can. Thus it would be foolish,
if, from the words of Macbeth —

Bring forth men children only !

the conclusion was drawn that the lady was
a young creature who had not yet borne any

94

children. And it would be equally foolish if
we were to go still further, and say that the
lady must be represented on the stage as a
very youthful person.

"Shakspere by no means makes Macbeth
say these words to show the youth of the
lady; but these words, like those of Lady
Macbeth and Macduff, which I quoted just
now, are merely introduced for rhetorical
purposes, and prove nothing more than that
the poet always makes his character say what-
ever is proper, effective, and good in each
particular place, without troubling himself to
calculate whether these words may, perhaps,
fall into apparent contradiction with some
other passage. ^

"Shakspere, in writing his pieces, could
hardly have thought that they would appear
in print, so as to be told over, and compared
one with another; he had rather the stage in
view when he wrote; he regarded his plays
as a lively and moving scene, that would pass
rapidly before the eyes and ears upon the
stage, not as one that was to be held firmly,
and carped at in detail. Hence, his only point

95

was to be effective and significant for the

^ moment."

96

1829

Wednesday, February 4th. "If the
Genasts stay here" [said Goethe], "I shall
write two pieces for you, both in one act
and in prose. One will be of the most cheer-
ful kind, and end with a wedding; the other
will be shocking and terrible, and two corpses
will be on the stage at the end. The latter
dates from Schiller's time, who wrote a scene
of it at my request. I have long thought
over both these subjects, and they are so
completely present to my mind that I could
dictate either of them in a week, as I did my
'Biirgergeneral.' "...

"Do so," said I; "write the two pieces at
all events; it will be a recreation to you after
the 'Wanderjahre,' and will operate like a
little journey. And how pleased the world
would be, if, contrary to the expectation of
every one, you did something more for the
stage."

"As I said," continued Goethe, "if the
Genasts stay here, I am not sure that I shall

97

aik

not indulge in this little pleasantry. But
without this prospect there is but small in-
ducement; for a play upon paper is nought.
The poet must know the means with which
he has to work, and must adapt his charac-
ters to the actors who are to play them. If
I can reckon upon Genast and his wife, and
take besides La Roche, Herr Winterberger,
and Madame Seidel, I know what I have to
do, and can be certain that my intentions will
be carried out.

/ "Writing for the stage," he continued, "Is
an art by itself, and he who does not under-
stand it thoroly had better leave it alone.
Every one thinks that an interesting fact will
appear interesting in the theater, — nothing
of the kind ! Things may be very pretty to
read, and very pretty to think about; but as
soon as they are put upon the stage the effect
is quite different, and what has charmed us
in the closet will probably fall flat on the
boards. When one reads my 'Hermann and
Dorothea,' he thinks it might be brought out
at the theater. Topfer has been inveigled
into the experiment; but what is it, what
effect does it produce, especially if it is not
played in a first-rate manner, and who can

98

»ay that it is in every respect a good piece?
Writing for the stage is a trade that one
must understand, and requires a talent that
one must possess. Both are uncommon, and
where they are not combined, we shall
scarcely have any good result."

Thursday, February 19th. Dined with
Goethe alone in his study. . . . We
talkt a great deal about 'Egmont,' which
had been represented, according to Schiller's
version, on the preceding evening, and the
injury done to the piece by this version was
brought under discussion.

"For many reasons," said I, "the Regent
should not have been omitted; on the con-
trary, she Is thoroly necessary to the piece.
Not only does this princess impart to the
whole a higher, nobler character, but the po-
litical relations especially of the Spanish
court are brought much more clearly in view
by her conversation with Machiavelll."

"Unquestionably," said Goethe. "And then
Egmont gains in dignity from the luster
which the partiality of this princess casts
upon him, while Clarchen also seems exalted
when we see that, vanquishing even prin-
cesses, she alone has all Egmont's love.

99

These are very delicate effects, which cannot
be obliterated without compromising the
whole."

"It seems to me, too," said I, "that where
there are so many important male parts, a
single female personage like Clarchen ap-
pears too weak and somewhat overpowered.
By means of the Regent the picture is better
balanced. It is not enough that the Regent
is talked of; her personal entrance makes
the impression."

"You judge rightly," said Goethe. "When
I wrote the piece I well weighed everything,
as you may imagine; and hence it is no won-
der that the whole materially suffers, when
a principal figure is torn out of it, which has
been conceived for the sake of the whole,
and thru which the whole exists. But Schil-
ler had something violent in his nature; he
often acted too much according to a precon-
ceived idea, without sufficient regard to the
subject which he had to treat."

"You may be blamed also," said I, "for
allowing the alteration, and granting him
such unlimited liberty in so important a mat-

ter."

lOO

"We often act more from indifference than
kindness," replied Goethe. "Then, at that
time, I was deeply occupied with other
things. I had no interest for 'Egmont' or
for the stage, so I let Schiller have his own
way. Now it is, at any rate, a consolation
for me that the work exists in print, and that
there are theaters where people are wise
enough to perform it, as I wrote it, without
abbreviation."

lOI

1830

Sunday, February 14th. — We . . spoke
of the theater, and dramatic poetry.

"Gozzi," said Goethe, "would maintain
that there are only six-and-thirty tragical
situations. Schiller took the greatest pains
to find more, but he did not find even so many

G* n
OZZl.

Wednesday, February 17th. — We talked
of the theater — of the color of the scenes
and costumes. The result was as follows : —

Generally, the scenes should have a tone
favorable to every color of the dresses, like
Beuther's scenery, which has more or less of
a brownish tinge, and brings out the color
of the dresses with perfect freshness. If,
however, the scene-painter is obliged to de-
part from so favorable an undecided tone,
and to represent a red or yellow chamber, a
white tent or a green garden, the actors
should be clever enough to avoid similar
colors in their dresses. If an actor in a red
uniform and green breeches enters a red

102

room, the upper part of his body vanishes,
and only his legs are seen; if, with the same
dress, he enters a green garden, his legs
vanish, and the upper part of his body is
conspicuous. Thus I saw an actor in a white
uniform and dark breeches, the upper part
of whose body completely vanisht in a
white tent, while the legs disappeared against
a dark background.

"Even," said Goethe, "when the scene-
painter is obhged to have a red or yellow
chamber, or a green garden or wood, these
colors should be somewhat faint and hazy,
that every dress in the foreground may be
relieved and produce the proper effect."

Wednesday, March 17th. — This evening
at Goethe's for a couple of hours. By order
of the Grand Duchess I brought him back
"Gemma von Art," and told him the good
opinion I entertained of this piece.

"I am always glad," returned he, "when
anything is produced which is new in inven-
tion and bears the stamp of talent." Then
taking the volume between his hands, and
looking at it somewhat askance, he added,
"but I am never quite pleased when I see a
dramatic author make pieces too long to be '

103

represented as they are written. This im-
perfection takes away half the pleasure that
I should otherwise feel. Only see what a
thick volume this 'Gemma von Art' is."

"Schiller," returned I, "has not managed
much better, and yet he is a very great dra-
matic author."

"He too has certainly committed this
fault," returned Goethe. "His first pieces
particularly, which he wrote in the fullness
of youth, seem as if they would never end.
He had too much on his mind, and too much
to say to be able to control it. Afterwards,
when he became conscious of this fault, he
took infinite trouble, and endeavored to over-
come it by work and study; but he never per-
fectly succeeded. //It really requires a poeti-
cal giant, and is more difficult than is imag-
ined, to control a subject properly, to keep
it from overpowering one, and to concen-
trate one's attention on that alone which is
absolutely necessary." //

104

I83I

Tuesday, February 15th. Dined with
Goethe. I told him about the theater; he
praised the piece given yesterday — 'Henry
111,' by Dumas — as very excellent, but nat-
urally found that such a dish would not suit
the public.

"I should not," said he, "have ventured
to give it, when I was director; for I remem-
ber well what trouble we had to smuggle
upon the public the 'Constant Prince,' which
has far more general human interest, is more
poetic, and in fact lies much nearer to us,
than 'Henry III.' "

I spoke of the 'Grand Cophta,' which I
had been lately reperusing. I talked over
the scenes one by one. and, at last, exprest
a wish to see it once on the stage.

"I am pleased," said Goethe, "that yo-
like that piece, and find out what I have
worked into it. It was indeed no little labor
to make an entirely real fact first poetical,
and then theatrical. And yet you will grant

105

that the whole Is properly conceived for the
stage. Schiller was, also, very partial to it;
and we gave it once, with brilliant effect, for
the higher order of persons. But it is not
for the public in general; the crimes of which
it treats have about them an enthralling
character, which produces an uncomfortable
feeling in the people. Its bold character
places it, indeed, in the sphere of 'Clara
Gazul' ; and the French poet might really
envy me for taking from him so good a sub-
ject. I say so good a subject, because it is in
truth not merely of moral, but also of great
historical significance; the fact immediately
preceded the French Revolution, and was, to
a certain extent, its foundation. The Queen,
through being implicated in that unlucky
story of the necklace, lost her dignity, and
was no longer respected, so that she lost,
in the eyes of the people, the ground where
she was unassailable. Hate injures no one;
it is contempt that casts men down. Kotze-
bue had been hated long; but before the
student dared to use his dagger upon him
it was necessary for certain journals to make
him contemptible."

1 06

Thursday, December ist. We then
spoke of Victor Hugo, remarking that his
too great fertility had been highly prejudi-
cial to his talent.

"How can a writer help growing worse,
and destroying the finest talent in the world,"
said Goethe, "if he has the audacity to write
in a single year two tragedies and a novel;
and, further, when he only appears to work
in order to scrape together immense sums
of money? I do not blame him for trying tQ
become rich, and to earn present renown;
but if he intends to live long in futurity, he
must begin to write less and to work more.''

Goethe then went thru 'Marie de Lorme,'
and endeavored to make It clear to me
that the subject only contained sufficient
material to make one single good and really
tragical act; but that the author had allowed
himself, by considerations of quite a second-
ary nature, to be misled into stretching out
his subject to five long acts. "Under these
circumstances," said Goethe, "we have
merely the advantage of seeing that the poet
is great in the representation of details,
which certainly Is something, and indeed no
trifle."

107

1832

March (no date). We talkt of the
tragic idea of Destiny among the Greeks.

"It no longer suits our way of thinking,"
said Goethe, "it is obsolete, and is also in
contradiction with our religious views. If a
modern poet introduces such antique ideas
into a drama, it always has an air of affec-
tation. It is a costume which is long since
out of fashion, and which, like the Roman
toga, no longer suits us.

"It is better for us moderns to say with
the poet, 'Politics is Destiny.' But let us
beware of saying, with our latest literati,
that politics is poetry, or a good subject for
the poet. The English poet Thomson wrote
a very good poem on the seasons, but a very
bad one on liberty, and that not from want
of poetry in the poet, but from want of
poetry in the subject.

"If a poet would work politically, he must
give himself up to a party; as soon as he
does that, he is lost as a poet; he must bid

108

tarewell to his free spirit, his unbiased view,
and draw over his ears the cap of bigotry
and blind hatred.

"The poet, as a man and a citizen, will
love his native land; but the native land of
his poetic powers is the good, the noble, the
beautiful, which is confined to no particular
province or country, and which he seizes
upon and forms wherever he finds it. Therein
is he like the eagle, who hovers with free ,
gaze over whole countries, and to whom It is
of no consequence whether the hare on which
he pounces is runnin;); in Prussia or Saxony.

"And then, what Is meant by love of one's
country? What is meant by patriotic deeds?
If the poet has employed a life In battling
with pernicious prejudices. In setting aside
narrow views. In enlightening the minds,
purifying the tastes, ennobling the feelings
and thoug-hts of his countrymen, what better
could he have done? How could he have
acted more patriotically?"

[This is the last conversation recorded by
F.ckermann. Goethe died on March 22,
1832.]

109

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